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Great News!

Rhys Ford’s Whiskey and Wry (Book Two of the Sinners’ Series) is coming from Dreamspinner Press on August 19th, 2013.

The Official Blurb:

He was dead. And it was murder most foul. If erasing a man’s existence could even be called murder.

When Damien Mitchell wakes, he finds himself without a life or a name. The Montana asylum’s doctors tell him he’s delusional and his memories are all lies: he’s really Stephen Thompson, and he’d gone over the edge, obsessing about a rock star who died in a fiery crash. His chance to escape back to his own life comes when his prison burns, but a gunman is waiting for him, determined that neither Stephen Thompson nor Damien Mitchell will escape.

With the assassin on his tail, Damien flees to the City by the Bay, but keeping a low profile is the only way he’ll survive as he searches San Francisco for his best friend, Miki St. John. Falling back on what kept him fed before he made it big, Damien sings for his supper outside Finnegan’s, an Irish pub on the pier, and he soon falls in with the owner, Sionn Murphy. Damien doesn’t need a complication like Sionn, and to make matters worse, the gunman—who doesn’t mind going through Sionn or anyone else if that’s what it takes kill Damien—shows up to finish what he started.

SWAG NEWS!

NOW…further news. I’ll be designing tour shirts for Sinner’s Gin… well one tour shirt to start. I’ll be putting these up on CafePress or some other Print On Demand site for you to purchase. They’ll be “at-cost”. No money in my pocket but hey! a shirt! Probably mugs too. Let’s see how it goes. I have to design the damned thing. I’m thinking of going retro old school rocker…skulls, wings, etc. Wish me luck. Watch this space for details.

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Someone once asked me, why do you sometimes include animals in your books? They don’t really serve a purpose to the plotline. And it’s a distraction.

This was someone I knew personally. Someone I don’t talk to anymore.

Because really, who wants someone around that doesn’t like animals?

I was an awkward child. I was told growing up that I was fat. In retrospect and in looking at pictures, I realize that I really wasn’t so much as I’m a very different build than the rest of the women in my family. The “fat” part came later but as a child, not so much. Not really. I was also told I was worthless in so many ways I can’t even count. Childhood was a brutal fucking wasteland of Hell I’d sooner bury back some place in someone else’s memories so I wouldn’t have to revisit it anymore.

But I would never do that to someone because that would be fucked.

There were good parts about it. Sadly, I lost the good parts within a span of about a year and a half.

You see, my grandfathers both passed away within a year of each other. They were my anchors to reality and the reason I knew what love was.

A few months later, I lost my dog Scottie to cancer. He’d been a gift to me from my paternal grandfather a few weeks after I’d been born. He’d been my companion and my safeguard. Someone I could tell my stories to and who listened to me. And licked away the tears from my face when the world got too fucking big for me to understand.

Because really the world was just too fucking big and confusion for me.

There are words and labels they’d put on me as I grew older. Ones I didn’t understand. Ones I disagreed with. Ones that infuriated me. I spent the rest of my life looking for the same kind of unconditional affection I’d found in my relationships with my grandfathers…and my dog.

It never came. I began to doubt it was ever a Truth.

I began to doubt myself. I began to doubt the why of me and the why the hell am I even here of me.

Then I found a small kitten about the size of a spitball with the head that was bigger than his body at a dump site and took him home. He held my faith for a long time. His name was Opala. It means trash in Hawaiian. He was surly and hated most people. He’d also steal the food from your plate while you were sitting right there. Hell, he’d take your fork if you weren’t watching close enough. But he loved me and would bring me his kills. Even if that kill was my sister’s hamburger he’d just stolen.

I had Opala with me for nearly twenty years. I broke when he needed to leave me.

But I also had Draven who told me Opala was having issues and came to get me. I’d lose Draven to his heart murmur a few years later but oh, the best fucking dog. Smart but he hated birds. Suave but a goofball. Lived with a tennis ball in his mouth and loved belly rubs. Listened when I told him not to chase the kangaroo rat that somehow got into the house and literally RAN over Tam’s sprawled body in the middle of the living room. The cairn was all.. Dude, do you NOT know I’m a terrier. The cat was all meh, whatever. Fuck that shit. Wake me when it’s got a “laser” on it. I don’t chase anything without a “laser”.

So why do I have animals in my stories? Because I have animals in my life. They’ve walked with me through the fucking heartbreaks and the brainbreaks and the doubts. They’ve given me nothing but pain in the ass situations and love. I’ve picked up shit, puke and unmentionable bits… namely mouse guts through my toes because Neko found one, ate its head off and left me the rest to step on and they squirt like one of the party popper favours when you hit their back end with the ball of your feet.

Wouldn’t trade one fucking minute of it. Which is a damned sight better than what I can say about my overall childhood.

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Old man dog Jax asleep on my foot after a romp outside. We don’t know how old he is. He’s a rescue that came to us with buck shot through his body and rocks and wood in his teeth he’d eaten to survive. A couple of months later, a kidney failed… spectacularly and he now only has one kidney. He’s gone blind and never really was that bright but he is a love. He sleeps on my feet and against my leg at night now to reassure himself that I am near.

I’m okay with that. He used to be terrified of loud noises…thunderstorms and fireworks. Probably because he’d been shot. I know that feeling. Over the years and some cuddles, that’s dissipated. He’s probably also partially deaf and / or no longer cares.

But he’s happy and healthy and likes to sleep and eat. He gets his cookie at night before bed and puts up with the cat beating his head when he walks by.

So… a good life. It’s been nearly 12 years since he’s joined the household. He might be 16 or 17 right now. We really don’t know. The vet couldn’t tell by his teeth because of the damage done but that was the guess.

But he’s still good for a romp and does a happy dance after he’s peed. He’s a simple dog. A dog’s dog. 😀 Really, can you ask for anything more from life?